Cold
by InSilva
Summary: A short series 5 Jesse piece. "Some nights, he dreamed about Alaska. His Alaska. White and cold and empty; nothing and no one as far as the eye could see."


Cold by InSilva

Disclaimer: do not own any of the wonderful characters.

A/N: have a desk. This is step one. Someone was keen that I progress to step two although they really shouldn't read this without watching the show.

* * *

Some nights, he dreamed about Alaska. _His_ Alaska. White and cold and empty; nothing and no one as far as the eye could see. A place for a clean start where the ice crystals were diamond not blue. A place where the cold could numb any pain, any feeling.

Sometimes, Jane was with him, walking across the vast snowy landscape, laughing and teasing and he'd wake with his lips formed into an unnatural curve. Sometimes, it was Andrea and Brock, his almost-family. Either way, it hurt like hell on waking to remember the happiness he'd felt.

Other nights, the Sandman was less kind. Gale's face would loom before him, bewildered and frightened, pleading with his eyes for things to go a different way but Mr White had said…and he needed Mr White to be safe...and Gale fell backwards, soul-snatched, like no video game corpse ever did.

Or maybe it wasn't Gale. Maybe it was Jane, lying lifeless beside him and he was trying everything, anything, all things to wake her; praying to gods he hadn't spoken to since first grade; begging that she just sit up and be alive.

Sometimes, it was more recent history. The desert and he was being hunted and he'd tried to make himself small and invisible and they hadn't seen him and they were going away and then Mr White, the devil himself, had marked him out and delivered him into hell.

Waking was to the nightmare. He'd thought that life couldn't get any worse. He'd thought that months ago. Life was always proving him wrong.

The danger to Brock hung over him like a carefully balanced ATM machine had once over Spooge. Todd had promised him that disobedience or suicide would bring the threat crashing down.

So he was a good little cook. He cleaned and weighed and measured and made the finest product he could. It didn't stop him fantasising about wrapping the cold steel shackles around Todd's neck and pulling hard. Trouble was, it wasn't just Todd and he couldn't get to all of them in time. He wasn't Mr White, smart and deadly. He wasn't Mike, lethal and prepared. Hell, he wasn't even Tuco, able to turn beserker rage into fatalities. He wished he was. He wished he could take them all on but that would take some kind of miracle. Or Mr White. If Mr White had been locked up with him, they'd have a plan. They'd have been free an age ago and Brock would be safe.

Except…except Mr White had put Brock in danger. Mr White had been as bad as Gus and his men, as bad as Todd – worse even, because he'd made it personal. And then there had been the last words Mr White had spoken to him. They'd hurt worse than the truth about Mike because he'd worked that out for himself. They'd hurt worse than knowing about Brock's poisoning because he'd worked that out as well once already and not believed himself.

Jane… He could hear the spite in Mr White's voice. All this time…she could have been alive and with him and they'd have been out of the whole damn mess.

He thought back to the desert and the glimpse of the birds flying in the clear blue sky. That had felt like his soul disappearing. Now, the only way out was death on their terms. Probably one random night when Jack decided several millions was finally enough money or Todd grew tired of chasing after Lydia and offering blue meth up like a box of chocolates to a prom date.

Or maybe there'd be a hit by some new cartel and they'd wipe everyone out like Gus had. Maybe they'd do that when he was chained and caged and hidden under the tarp, holding his breath and praying they wouldn't find him. Then they'd go away and Brock would be safe because no one would come for him anymore and threaten and make good on threats…

But then, no one would come for him. He'd rot away, dead from starvation and thirst and no one would know, no one would care, no one would come for him.

Who _would_? Who would ever come for him? Not his parents…not Badger and Skinny Pete…Saul wouldn't give a damn…

There was only one person who had ever bothered to save him from himself and others. And Mr White wasn't turning up any time soon. Mr White was somewhere far away with a great big barrel of green.

Still the whisper of hope could catch him off guard. _Suppose…?_ _Suppose…? _

"Suppose," he muttered to himself and closed his eyes.

Somewhere above him, there were footsteps.


End file.
